A New Room
by Windmills of your mind
Summary: Companion fic to "I wouldn't leave without saying goodbye" A happy memory helps Sherlock cope with torture.


**Warnings: smoking; implied smut; spoilers for series 3; references to torture; slight OOC.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

Sherlock drew deeply on his cigarette, closing his eyes in contentment as the nicotine surged through his veins; that heady rush that he had craved so much. Here it was fine; everybody smoked here.

It was late autumn, but the afternoon sun was pleasantly warm.

He exhaled; a thin stream of smoke drifting from his lips and dissipating into the air.

He opened his eyes; staring at the view that unfolded beneath him. He was sitting on a grassy slope in Buttes Chaumont; a park in the northeast of the city. Families wandered around, enjoying the afternoon, and he watched the Parisians coming and going without bothering to think about their lives.

He extinguished his cigarette and drew up his knees, hugging them to his chest. He was dressed in black jeans, a plain white t-shirt and a pale grey jumper. It was a rather nice jumper, he thought, plucking at the sleeve. Very soft, cashmere. Mycroft had purchased new clothing for him to take on this trip; or rather Mycroft had sent Anthea out to buy items for his younger brother. She had good taste, Sherlock mused. The cashmere sweater had become a particular favourite of his over the last few weeks. It was subtle, unlike some of the ones that John wore.

John.

The name slid into his mind and sprung the lock to a door he had wanted to keep closed. Once opened, a rush of difficult emotions flowed out; emotions that Sherlock had fought hard to suppress, to keep locked away in the highest, most remote turret of his mind palace; but here they all were, swirling around in the front of his mind, burrowing into his skin, so that he erupted into goose pimples that made him shiver, despite the warm air; hitting him hard in the chest; he gasped in pain.

He could not bear to think of how he had hurt his friend, and now his mind was replaying the torturous scene he had witnessed from his hiding place among the shadows in the graveyard.

"Don't be dead"

Over and over the words repeating in a continuous loop.

"Don't be dead"

Sherlock jumped up and began to stride across the park. He could not run away from his own thoughts, so he was heading for the one place where he knew he could find an escape; a place where he could seek sanctuary.

* * *

Abby tilted her head to one side and then the other. She took a few steps back, cupping her chin with her hand, thoughtfully.

This new piece was causing her a lot of consternation. Nothing looked quite right; the brushstrokes seemed too heavy; the colours clashing unpleasantly.

She sighed and set down her brush, deciding that a cup of tea would be a welcome distraction from her problem.

She padded toward the kitchen, passing the large mirror that was propped against the wall in her living room/studio. She stopped and looked at her reflection. She was wearing her working clothes; paint covered, torn jeans, a blue vest, and her painting shirt: an old, man's shirt that she had found in a charity shop. She had fastened only three of the buttons. Fresh paint was smeared over not only the shirt and her jeans, but also over her hands, her cheek and her nose. She had fastened up her long hair, twisting it behind her head and holding it into place with a paintbrush. Her hair was dyed red as far as her jaw line, beyond that, where it fell down to her shoulders, was bright pink. A few strands had escaped from her top knot, and were now also several shades of blue from the paint she had been using.

She wrinkled her nose up at her reflection, poked her tongue out at it, exposing her silver tongue stud, then carried on into the kitchen. She picked up the kettle and began to fill it with water. She had brought a supply of tea with her from London. The French didn't really do tea.

She had just plugged in the kettle and clicked the switch, setting it to boil, when an insistent pounding on her door startled her out of thoughts about her work.

She moved back into her living room and hesitated in the doorway, glancing down the hall to her front door anxiously.

"Abby! Abby, let me in!"

She knew that voice, but she had never heard him sound like that; like a wounded animal.

She hurried toward the door, fearful of what lay beyond it.

He burst through the opened door, his eyes blazing. The door slammed as Sherlock kicked it shut and he seized the startled woman, slamming her against the wall, kissing her furiously, and tearing at her shirt so that the aged fabric ripped apart, in the haste of his passion.

Sherlock slid his hands down Abby's back and lifted her off of her feet, pulling her body close to his. She wrapped her legs around his waist and together they stumbled into Abby's bedroom, tumbling onto the bed in a tangle of limbs.

* * *

Sherlock lay back against the pillow and idly contemplated the fact that he would have to stand on a chair to retrieve his sweater from the light fitting.

His mind was calm now; the flurry of thoughts and emotions that had flowed from that particular part of his mind palace, had been stemmed, and the memories placed back inside, the door locked, extra bolts fitted.

He did not want to acknowledge that yet another room, in an even more remote location, had already been prepared. A room where all of his thoughts, feelings and memories of Abby would be stored. A room that, once locked, should never be reopened.

Abby snuggled closer to him; her head was resting on his chest, and she could feel the steady beat of his heart.

She had not asked him what had happened prior to his arrival at her door. She knew that he had his demons, like everyone else. She had seen many of her friends seek to quash their own pain along a more chemical route, and she knew that this man in her bed had also walked that particular path. He had not said so, but the signs were there. Abby felt glad that she could help him, so that he did not need to revisit that particular place.

"William" she said.

Sherlock stirred from his reverie, remembering Mycroft's poorly concealed smirk when he had handed his brother the new passport that had been prepared for him.

"William Baker?" Sherlock had questioned.

Mycroft nodded.

"How staggeringly unoriginal" the detective said.

Sherlock looked down at the top of Abby's head and waited for her to continue.

"You do realise that you have paint in your hair?"

He raised his hand and ruffled his thick, curly locks, and sure enough, flakes of dried blue paint fell out onto the bedcovers.

"And how did they get there, I wonder?" he teased.

Abby looked up, smiling sheepishly.

"I see" he said. "Then you will have to be punished"

Abby giggled as he rolled her over onto her back.

* * *

The memory reel faded to black. Sherlock half expected the credits to commence: The part of William Baker was played by Mr Sherlock Holmes.

It had been a role really; that part of his life was shot through with an alternate reality, but if it was a play, then it was a play where both of the protagonists were lovers in actuality; that was definitely not role play.

He had not deliberately drawn the memory from his mind palace; his subconscious had selected this recollection from a place that he had promised himself he would not revisit. A room so hidden away in its own private maze that it was almost impossible to find. But he knew why his mind had chosen this reminiscence. It was of a time when he had been suffering, in torment, and Abby had soothed that pain away; and now this sweet memory came to his aid; for he was suffering, only the pain this time was totally physical.

His arms were stretched out on both sides, almost to breaking point, and thick, heavy manacles encircled his wrists, pulling at his flesh, digging into his skin.

Again and again came the heavy blows from a stout length of metal. He had felt two of his ribs crack under the onslaught.

And he was so cold.

The underground room was glacial, and his captors wore heavy coats and thick, woollen hats. He was naked above the waist; his skin was damp from the constant dripping of water from leaking pipes overhead. And his feet were bare, frozen to the point where he could no longer feel any sensation in them.

He had not been allowed to sleep since his capture; 72 hours without respite had clouded his mind, fogging his razor sharp brain and dulling its edge.

But now the memory of Abby had revived him, and even though his head was bowed as he no longer had the strength to support it, his brain began to coalesce the information that had he observed as he was being brought to this place of torture.

His chief tormentor lowered his head as Sherlock whispered to him.

Soon the man hurried from the room, leaving Sherlock alone with his brother, who had been silently observing events as they unfolded, from a corner of the room. If watching his younger brother being beaten had disturbed him, Mycroft did not allow this to show.

As the shackles were unlocked from the detective's wrists, deep inside his mind, the locks were clicking back into place on the door to that well hidden room. Sherlock doubted that he would ever dip into those memories again.

Mycroft was speaking to him now, and Sherlock nodded at his brother's words; it was indeed time to go home.


End file.
